


Nothing But My Aching Soul

by Midnight_Masquerade



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: 1980s, Angst, Backstory, Break Up, F/M, Immortality, Mortality, Old Age, One Shot, Pre-Series, Speculation, break his heart to save him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Masquerade/pseuds/Midnight_Masquerade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This day has been coming for 40 years. It's the right course, the action she must take because he never will. Unsurprisingly, that is little comfort to Abigail as she forces herself to walk out of Henry's life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing But My Aching Soul

**Author's Note:**

> After hearing a third-hand rumour and engaging in a major geek-out, I decided to get this up before the show could either joss or confirm (assuming it makes it that far *fingers crossed*).
> 
> Reviews and concrit always most welcome.

Sixty five.

She'd always told herself sixty five.

The summer of 1985 was shaping up to be a beautiful one – January's horrendous cold wave was already sinking to the back of North Carolina's collective memory and the strains of _We Are the World_ were still echoing around every corner. If it were any other time, Abigail Morgan would be painting the city red, leaving no party un-crashed and no moment of joy un-seized.

But it wasn't any other time. It was now.

_“Do you love me?”_   
_“Yes. Yes I do. But trust me, over time it won't end well.”_   
_“Who cares how it ends? Life is about the journey, no matter how long it lasts! I'm sorry, Doctor Morgan, but I'm not letting go so fast.”_

Nothing under the sun is truly new. Was that right? She'd been barely 20 years old when war had torn the world out from under her, and her Good Christian upbringing had been all but consumed by the smoke and ash. She owned a Bible, of course; a small, leather-bound one that had sat on a countless number of bookshelves over the decades, but it had been long time since she'd felt any desire to pick it up. There was nothing any God could do for her family.

Now, her hand trembles as she puts pen to paper, thoughts rattling like caged birds. Even here, it was likely too soon to blame age, but for once there is neither thrill nor comfort to be found in her stuttering nerves. There are too many things poised in the nib of her pen, apologies and explanations and reassurances. This letter can never be enough, just as Henry's note to her all those years ago would never have sufficed had he gotten away, and for a moment she has to shove the page aside. Every part of her is screaming to tear it up, to stay by her husband's side, consequences be damned.

_“You can't plan for everything, Henry. Sometimes it's good to be rash.”_

With a few deep, anchoring breaths she pulls her letter back to her. She'd lived a full, active life and easily had another 30 years left in her. But what was 30 years to man over a century old? It would pass in the blink of an eye, and Henry would spend that time watching her slowly decay. They had already passed the point where they could be together honestly in public without attracting disgusted glances and scandalous mutterings. Not that Abigail gave a damn what anyone said about her, but they couldn't afford that kind of attention. Discretion had been the better part of valour for almost 40 years, after all.

_“Everything you are, everything you've learned is for something bigger. You were made like this for a reason. But it wasn't for me.”_

She had started to see it in Henry's eyes, these last few years. The deepening lines in her face and the sagging of her skin. He kissed as earnestly as ever, of course, but it could no longer be denied. The rot of old age was setting into her bones. So she'd determined to honour the oath she'd made herself oh so many summers ago, when she was fresh faced and youth still felt eternal: if she were still around at sixty five, she would make the choice that Henry wouldn't. The choice that needed to be made, for both their sakes.

_“I'll be gone some day and you won't.”_   
_“Abigail, please. Can't I just have this moment?”_

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been able to look into a mirror when Henry was at her side. It was unbearable, the twisted, ghoulish version of reality that blinked back at her – her beloved, shoulder-to-shoulder with a woman old enough to be his mother. If she stuck around, that was probably the story they'd start telling, eventually.

She could only admit it to herself when her resolve was at it's most unshakeable, but this wasn't all about him. She doesn't want spend her final years flinching from her own reflection, denying what she’s become.

_“My Henry... One day I'll be gone and you'll still be here.”_

By the time she's closing the letter with her name her hands are blotchy with ink and her fingers ache from her iron grip on the pen. Emotions rage inside her, savaging her lungs and heart and screeching for release, but she dare not surrender to them. Instead she stands, slips the pages behind her dresser and goes to wash her hands. She smiles, because what else can she do?

_“Have you finished yet?”_   
_“The photos and the photo album and we're finished.”_   
_“But Abigail...”_   
_“Henry, they can't be replaced, they're coming.”_   
_“...Of course.”_

Surrender is not in her nature. She'd tended to the sick on the front lines, after all, was among the people searching the rubble and grime of the concentration camps in search of a glimmer of life. This fight is the most important one she will ever be a part of, and she will stand just as firm. So she smiles, and she moves around the kitchen preparing their final meal, and she waits for Henry to come home.

The dull throb that had been pulsing through her ever since she started making preparations finds great joy in the empty hours, and with nothing left to do but occupy her hands the agony of premeditated grief is suddenly awake and rending her apart. They hadn't called this little house home for more than 3 years, but every surface still explodes under her touch, a thousand memories cascading from every surface and fanning the flames of her own cowardice, imploring her to stay.

_“Abigail, I'm sorry-”_  
 _“Why?”_  
 _“Because it won't work – because it_ can't _work.”_  
 _“I've read your letter! Do you love me?”_

It isn't really the house, of course it isn't. But the house is all that's here, and so it's the house that seems to fall to it's knees and beg her not to go.

_“Henry, we don't have to go. A few greys make you look like Clarke Gable. And in case you haven't noticed, I like older men.”_

The first fracture appears when Henry walks through the front door and sweeps her into his arms. She feels her face crumple and her breath hitch, and for a moment she is gripped with panic. He mustn’t suspect... If he suspects he'll get it out of her, and he'll ask her to stay, and how could she possibly deny him?

She paints on a smile that seems to convince him, and from then on the evening could be like any other. Yes, every moment is torture, seconds dragging out immeasurably as she fights the urge to pull him close and lose herself in his embrace and never, ever let go. But then, mere moments after he'd walked in, she looks to the clock and realises their time is almost up.

_“Nice footwork, Doctor Morgan.”_   
_“Well I've had a lot of practice, Mrs. Morgan.”_   
_“Ha, please don't remind me!”_

Springing to her feet, she puts on the record player and cheerfully drags him up to dance. Swaying gently, pressed close together and breathing as one, she shuts her eyes and lets the music take her back. The war is only just over, she is young and in love, the skies are clear and they have all the time in the world. All the time in the world...

_“I don't know what the future holds. But as long as I'm alive, I will always love you. Forever. Will you marry me?”_   
_“Oh Henry... my great idiot, of course.”_

She stays up to read. She cannot follow him upstairs, cannot climb into bed with him, cannot lay her head on his chest and feel his arm around her. He kisses her once, so sweetly she has a stab of fear that he knows. But then he's climbing the stairs and the light is out, and she is alone.

_“My Henry...”_

It's almost 1 am before she dares head for the bedroom, listening out for his gentle snores before slipping into the room, laying her letter on the dresser and pulling her suitcase from the wardrobe.

_“Promise me that we'll never be like Gloria and her husband – that we'll always love each other.”_   
_“Oh, never like them, of course.”_

All she can see in the darkness is the shape of him against the mattress, but it is almost enough. It’s several minutes before she can prise her feet from the floor. Then she is out of the room, creeping through the house without looking back, and clicking the front door shut behind her.

_“I'll never get tired of this.”_   
_“What's that?”_   
_“Seasons changing, nature, cycle of life.”_   
_“All of us one year older. Even you, darling.”_

She doesn't cry. Her tears are more than willing, crowding at her eyes like over-excited children, but she refuses to let even one escape. If she does, the dam will be broken and she will be running back to her husband's side before she even knows what she's doing.

_“I'm impressed, Henry. This older look suits you quite nicely.”_

It's not just Henry. It's Abe as well. Knowing she will never speak to her son again sits like ice in her gut, but the risk is too great. If she contacts Abe then he will call Henry, and then...

_“You're in trouble... I don't think he's going to let you go.”_

Abe is his own man now. He has his own life. It'll hurt, but he'll do fine without her. Henry is a more than capable father.

_“I love you so much, Abe.”_   
_“We both do. And we're proud of you.”_   
_“Dad... you came.”_   
_“How could I not?”_

Halfway down the street a taxi turns the corner, and she considers hailing it. But her train is a long time away, and she knows she cannot leave herself idle. She must keep going, if she stops it’ll only leave time for the doubt to find its way in.

_“If only it were that simple.”_   
_“What could be more simple than making an impulsive commitment for the rest of your life?”_

The air is cool. The early hours of another sweltering summers day in North Carolina.

_“Everything I've learned, everything I've ever done, was all so I'd be worthy of you. And I love you, more than I've ever loved anything in this world.”_

Her heels make a rhythmic clack on the sidewalk, and she clings to the sound. If nothing else, her shoes are as steady and unyielding as ever.

_“I think you have someone special here, Abigail.”_   
_“I think you're right.”_

She'd made her choice, that night on the steps of the Museum. She'd make it again. Life wasn't about the ending, it was about the journey. She'd told Henry that once, and she'd meant it. _If I could go back. If I could turn back time and do it all again, I'd still choose you, my love. I'd choose you every time._

_“Are you a doctor? This baby was just recovered from one of the camps... he appears to be in perfect health.”_

The world, in all it's beautiful and uncharted cruelty, would still be turning tomorrow. And the next day and the next, and when Henry was the only Morgan left. Life was not for her to question, it was for her to live. And by God, had she and Henry _lived_.

Abigail straightens her shoulders, ignoring how her quick pace bites into her in ways it never used to, and marches off into the end of her story.


End file.
